


hole in my head

by ruche



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: First Love, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruche/pseuds/ruche
Summary: Fourteen and way out of depth, Felix examines the nature of devotion. Particularly his own, which is a nasty beast and an open wound.He tries to fix the wound. It doesn’t work out for anybody.Or, Felix and Dimitri hang out six months after the Tragedy of Duscur. It sucks.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 11
Kudos: 75





	hole in my head

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【授权翻译】深洞于我思绪中](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25084063) by [ElysioniaHIBIKI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElysioniaHIBIKI/pseuds/ElysioniaHIBIKI)



> Felix, known tsundere, snorting aggravatedly: i almost want to hug you. almost.  
> Me: oh so felix was a hugger? so felix was a hugger is what you’re saying *cracks fingers
> 
> This fic just came out of me thinking “wouldn’t it be fucked up if--?” several times. I also wanted to try writing the transition period between Felix’s Having Emotions and Shutting Them Down Forever. there was the period before the rebellion when felix decided dimitri was just an unsalvageable demon to be avoided, when he still thought of him as a friend, and for various reasons could not do a single thing for him. that's gotta hurt kiddo  
> anyway here just take it
> 
> Warnings: potentially iffy portrayal of a kid recovering (“”recovering””) from trauma, another kid being rly insensitive abt it, adolescent heartbreak, me not knowing anything abt swords. Also, there’s nothing graphic about it, but if you’re very sensitive about consent, Felix is Momentarily Pushy and Impulsive with physical-romantic affection. Also, secondhand embarrassment is my Brand.

“Dima,” Felix sighs, “are you trying to figure out how many ways you can ruin a perfectly good sword?” 

The other boy looks up, startled, hands stilling their business. Felix freezes, too. These days he feels unprepared when his best friend’s attention does fall on him, newly dull and uncertain. Just plain bizarre, the way it picks at his nerves. He shakes his head, continuing on regardless. “You’re over-oiling it,” he gruffs, and reaches to his side for another rag. “It’ll soak and ruin the grip. What are you doing?”

Dimitri glances at the steel laid across his lap, shining with an unnatural, goopy sheen, and purses his lips. “Oh-- of course,” he says, leaning forward to take the proffered dry cloth, and mechanically returns to his task. The slip of his hand is hypnotic, and as Felix stares, he almost, almost swallows the lump in his throat (or tries to, as he has been trying for the last six months)-- but in the delicate silence of the room, he fears Dimitri will hear it. 

He continues rubbing wax into the leather hilt of his own sword, roughly, and tries to look anywhere but at Dimitri. The prince hasn’t bothered to remove his gauntlets since training this morning, and the metal catches the lamplight. Felix glances toward the window, where the capital city stretches out before them.

It’s the same room that has always accommodated him on his visits to Fhirdiad. He cannot count how many times he and Dimitri have sat here, just like this. Just them and their blades, apart from the world. It had felt like the center of the universe. 

That, at least, hasn’t changed. If anything, Fhirdiad’s impossible gravity intensified after Duscur. 

Felix recalls the state funeral six months ago, the grief of a nation in the air like a brewing storm-- how comparatively silly it felt, how furious he’d been with his father for demanding he stand around in honor of a fallen king when the prince-- his friend-- was still alive and, at that very moment, suffering and screaming and crying alone in the infirmary. 

All those weeks ago, the Duke Fraldarius had scratched tiredly at his beard, looking for all the world afraid to approach his own son. When he did, he had the gall to say Felix should try “comforting His Highness” in the days to come.

The old man really was a ridiculous fool. He did not need to be told. If he thought he could comfort Dimitri, he’d cross mountains and rivers to do it. 

He just couldn't. 

The prince was incomprehensible. Inconsolable. There was no approaching the thing that had crawled inside of Dimitri and cried out with his mouth, stared unseeing with his eyes. It hurt to look at him. He couldn’t say which was worse-- the burns and bandages, or the haunted stare, the _blubbering_. Dimitri could hardly say, let alone hear, anything sensible in the week after he was found matted in blood, and when he was finally able to string words together-- well. He still wasn’t there, and in his eyes, neither was Felix. He went home to Fraldarius, and whether he was running away or holding his ground was a toss-up. 

Castle Fraldarius was practically a crypt as well, but at least it was a peaceful one. A privilege of being completely alone while the good lord of the house was out attending to the dead king’s will. Felix had never appreciated solitude so much. Missing Dimitri felt like a risk or a luxury, and he tried not to indulge. 

Now it’s only been one moon since his father sent for him again, baiting him with promises that Dimitri was better. And he was. He smiled, though rare and not half as brilliant as before. He trained and sparred, he broke his weapons. He was teaching that oblivious Duscur boy how to read and write. His voice had gotten deeper-- Felix’s had not-- and he’d gotten a haircut, now fanning across his creased forehead. He looked older. He didn’t act like it.

When Felix was finally allowed to see him on his feet again, when Dimitri greeted him by name, he’d wanted to throw his arms around the prince with such force that _he_ would be the one crushed for once—

Instead the awkward silence of their reunion had suffocated Felix. His arms tingled where he’d wanted to hold onto his friend. Still he kept his hope alive, even as Dimitri looked around, lethargic and skittish at once, and spoke as though he had a rock lodged in his throat. “Felix,” he’d began, the first full sentence between them in months. “It’s so good to-- see you.”

Felix nodded. His lips twitched. He did not think returning that exact greeting would be telling the truth. 

A disquieting pain crossed Dimitri’s face. “I’m-- I am sorry--”

 _I’m sorry I called you by your dead brother’s name,_ was the first thing to come to mind. _I’m sorry I wasn’t there to mourn with you,_ was more like Dimitri. But with that hope alight in his chest, almost anything would have been fine. _I’m sorry we grew up on those sickening knight’s tales, I’m sorry I didn’t write back, I’m sorry I’ve been acting so strange--_

He didn’t finish for what felt like an eternity. It seemed like just standing on his feet was taxing. Felix wanted to hear the rest, selfishly, because it was meant for him, finally, something meant for _him_ , yet the pitiful sight of Dimitri still scrambled his brain until he wanted to turn tail and run. 

“I’m sorry,” the prince managed. "I have to tell you. I must tell you. It was my fault-- Glenn-- it was--”

Felix could only stare. He’d known Glenn died protecting Dimitri; it was all anyone could fucking talk about. “What?”

“I’m sorry-- ” Dimitri had lowered his head, trembling. “I’m so-- _sorry_.”

What, was he supposed to forgive him for doing nothing wrong?

“There wasn’t anything I could do-”

“Glenn was just doing what he had to,” Felix could’ve winced at the sharpness in his voice, but felt far too tense to do so. He closed his eyes. “At least according to everyone in Faerghus. What do you want me to say?”

A pause. His head dipped with a fast, shuddery breath. Then, quietly: “Felix, I apologize. I wanted-- I felt I had to tell you the truth.”

That baleful stare again. Felix’s jaw clenched. 

_Comfort Dimitri._ He wanted to, he wanted to, he wouldn’t give up-- 

“Let’s just spar already,” he’d said-- _snapped_ , in truth. He couldn’t think of anything else. He ignored the way Dimitri’s eyes widened. He ignored everything and anything between that moment and the first clash of their practice swords in the yard. That was a rhythm he knew, a Dimitri he could learn to read. 

Dima still listens so intently to his instructors. He works long past the point of being tired, though he tries to hide it, and relaxes whenever he wins a match. He’s too soft with his horse, and likes to take long rides, just takes them with his father instead of Glenn, now. And so not all is lost.

His father tells him Dimitri is healing, and to be gentle with him. Felix can’t recall a time in his life when gentleness has ever served him, nor if anyone had ever bothered to show him how it works. Holding back against Dimitri in the yard would get him thrown hard on his ass, with his pride bruised to boot, so he doesn’t really bother with that nonsense. 

He’s certainly not adding to all the pitying stares from courtesans. Dimitri doesn’t need more pity. 

He seems to shrink and shy under those glittering gazes, and it makes Felix’s chest ache with that _damned_ clumsy desire to protect. 

But he shrinks under Felix’s gaze, too, and it makes him want to scream. 

“When are you going back to your territory?”

Felix looks up. Dimitri has set aside the sword he was working on. Felix wants to reach out and inspect it, but stops himself, simply creasing his eyebrows at the prince. He’s not looking at Felix, thank the goddess. Then:

“Are you homesick at all?” Dimitri prompts, turning his head, and _damn_ if something within Felix doesn’t wrench and shrink beneath those big blue eyes, too. 

The answer is— _yes_ , Felix is more homesick than he’s ever been, but not for a manor in the snow. He closes his eyes, refocusing on the other question. The answer to this is obvious, too: he leaves when he can bear to part with Dimitri as he is. Doesn’t he know everything revolves around him? 

That used to be a wonderful secret, a bursting well of power, that Felix would do anything for Dimitri and he didn’t even _know_ , so sweet, so selfless, so much so he wouldn’t even imagine the depths of adoration people had for him. He was so busy taking his own steps, walking his own path— and Felix had loved him for this.

But he doesn’t know the effect he has on those around him, it seems, or if he does, he doesn’t care. Blithe ignorance or not, it prickles. It stings. 

“I don’t know,” Felix answers, and sounds annoyed. “My father doesn’t make that decision, I do—”

He rakes his eyes across Dimitri’s subdued expression, the _absence_ in it, and feels his chest constrict. Still he enunciates regularly, as regularly as possible, he will not lose to the lump in his throat. 

“--and I’m getting bored here. I might go and become a squire for some knight in the southwest regions.”

Felix loathes himself for tracking Dimitri’s reaction. He loathes himself more for being unable to read it: Dima’s shoulders simply dip. A breath of relief? A slump of disappointment? _Do you want me here or not? What do you want?_

“A squire?” Dimitri asks.

Felix shrugs, shakes his head. “I might find still worthier opponents elsewhere.”

Dimitri looks down, and reaches for another sword leaning against the bedside. His voice is maddeningly careful. “Ah. I haven’t been the best sparring partner lately, I suppose. I am sorry for that.”

Felix ignores that Dimitri has more than that to be sorry for. _Gentleness._ Instead he says, without hesitation, “It’s true you’ve gotten sloppy. You shouldn’t rely on your brute strength in swordplay.”

Glenn used to say this all the time, his own way of marveling at Dimitri’s crest. Then Felix would join in to tease Dimitri for so many broken lances, ink quills, dinner forks— Felix shuts his eyes, stamping down on the threat of a full-body shudder. He cannot stop the raw heat of mourning that overtakes his gut. _Why,_ he thinks. He could _kick_ himself. 

If Dimitri responded to the familiar words at all, Felix didn’t notice. He’s moved on to oiling this other sword, larger, one of Felix’s. Felix watches him do it properly, and still doesn’t feel satisfied.

“I’ll train harder,” Dimitri swears, and Felix knows this to be true, whether he’s around to see it or not.

“I will, too,” says Felix, but Dimitri gives no indication that he heard. Felix sheathes the sword on his own lap, looks over the ornamental hilt for a few moments. Just being near him was… fine, if Felix didn’t focus too hard on everything so tremendously _off_ about Dimitri. Unfortunately, he was not the type to steer his eyes from the truth. Some things simply rang out loud and clear. 

“Let me guess,” Felix says. “You’re thinking about Glenn again.”

Dimitri blanches. Could be the lighting, but horror makes him look years older. He keeps staring down at the low gleam of the blade on his lap, the lamplight’s flickery reflection upon its steel. 

“How could I not?” Dimitri mutters, almost hoarse. Nothing sweet or regal about it.

“It is possible,” Felix retorts. “You’ll make a pretty sorry king if the sight of a sword means one thing to you.”

It’s historically a joke between friends. Them and Sylvain and Ingrid. _You’ll make a sorry king if you can’t catch me, if you can’t climb this tree, if you can’t skate across this pond,_ and so on, always said in jest, always accompanied by giggles. The room is too quiet and Felix finds he means it this time, viciously, truly. The sight in front of him is a sorry _something._

Felix isn’t a hypocrite. Every time he has a sword in his hand, he thinks of his brother, but he’s trying to do so less and less. It just won’t do to be distracted, and for what? There’s nothing he can do for Glenn now. 

“Felix…” 

Dimitri’s voice is miserable and hollow. Felix resents its new depth, the way it weighs on his name. All the brightness has gone out of it, and yet Felix is still irrationally moved. Dimitri is not the kind to crumble under pressure all at once. You just see him wear it around.

“You don’t know how to stop,” Felix charges, though he’s not the picture of moderation himself, is he, pinched with rage or desperation as he sets the sword aside. There’s only a moment of hesitation before he reseats himself closer to Dimitri, inches away. 

Dimitri looks down again, murmuring. Felix doesn’t miss the singe of frustration to it. “I _can’t_ stop, Felix. They wouldn’t… I cannot.”

Felix could tremble. He reaches over, carefully, and confiscates the broadsword from Dimitri’s grasp. It’s still too heavy for him to use comfortably; he steadies his hold with two hands. He’s supposed to work up to using it, and he has no doubts that he’ll be able to within the year. He’s done nothing else but train. 

Now, though, he pillows the bare blade on the woolen sheets without a second glance. He frowns at Dimitri’s ear, his cheek. “ _You_ told me a sword is for cutting a path to your future.” 

Dimitri does not raise his head, but Felix sees his eyebrows knit and bend in confusion. Is Felix speaking Srengil, that Dimitri doesn't understand his own words?

“But…” He looks at Felix, searching. There’s a long pause. Dimitri’s considering gaze takes Felix apart piece by piece. When he decides to speak, it still comes out in a low, grief-stricken murmur. Even with his deeper voice, he sounds so _little_. “Felix, why did it have to happen? If we were to have a future, they all should have been there. Glenn, Mother, Father, his knights… even El...”

If Felix lives to be a hundred, he’ll never forget the rawness of his voice, the shake of his shoulders. Senseless, really. “Well that’s-- that's not how it _is_ ,” Felix quips, at a loss. Why did it happen? Dimitri says the people of Duscur had nothing to do with it, but Felix’s faith in his account wavers when he remembers the chaos in Dimitri’s mind upon returning. 

He has no interest in political grudgery, anyway— “Does it... matter why it happened?” His thin, calloused hands clench over his breeches. “It just… did.”

“Felix...” Dimitri breathes out, halting, not unkindly. The careful distance to it has returned. “Perhaps it’s best if you don’t understand.”

" _You_ don't understand," Felix snaps, desperation reaching an all time high. Then, just like that, it deflates. He shakes his head. “Ha. Then what am I supposed to do?”

“What do you mean?”

Dimitri looks at him, really looks at him. Felix hesitates--

"I can't stand seeing you like this," he says tersely. The sweaty flesh of his palms rub up and down his thighs, restless. "Dimitri, I-- what do you want me to do?"

Instead of giving in, crying, or Seiros forbid, _thinking about it,_ Dimitri winces. He stands up. It's as if the muscles of his face don't know what to do with themselves. 

“Am I that unacceptable?” he asks. 

“No—”

“I cannot simply forget—” 

“I’m not asking you to. I just-- “

“Please, there’s nothing to—” 

“Dima—”

“Felix, you don’t need to trouble yourself—"

How terribly these words rattle his pride. Felix gets to his feet.

“Did you not hear me? I _want_ to." He captures Dimitri's hand in his own, and squeezes the cast of his gauntlet. It's uncomfortable-- both of their hands meant for holding weaponry, not this-- but Dimitri does not pull away.

It makes Felix remember what victory feels like. He meets those big blue eyes head on, begging to see something right in them. Slowly, Dimitri does relax, grip soft, eyes lidding, he breathes out through his nose and is again the sweet boy always at Felix's side, just-- sadder, but-- 

“Yes… of course you want to," Dimitri accedes fondly, warm and knowing and contemplative. Almost as if he’s reminding himself. Does some part of him not believe it?

Heedless of the way it bites into his skin, Felix grips his friend's iron-clad hand harder. "Yes," he huffs, vindicated.

He has always hated arguing with Dimitri. Before the prince can say another word, Felix grabs his face.

Glenn used to kiss Ingrid on the forehead when he greeted her. And he never refused Felix when he wanted to be picked up, or held, or hugged, though these memories embarrass him now. He’d sling his arm around Sylvain and ruffle his hair whenever they went on walks. When Glenn embraced someone, he was giving them something.

Felix had always held on simply because he didn’t want to let go. 

Dimitri's pursed pink lips had caught his attention for some time before the tragedy, though it seems so silly now. Felix's heart thumps like a rabbit's leg, regardless. He's only ever graceful with the sword, not his words, not now, certainly, with his lock-grip on either side of Dimitri's handsome face, but _fuck_ , he _is_ handsome, and to feel Dimitri's mouth open against his own-- 

He leans in and closes his eyes. There's a clack of teeth, a nudge of tongue, and Felix releases half a shuddering sigh against Dimitri's lips, unwilling to let go. 

He knows Glenn has never kissed anyone before. He was too honorable, and Ingrid was too young. 

_I’m here first,_ Felix thinks numbly, _with Dimitri--_

It’s that little addendum that makes all the difference, inspiring warmth where guilt was sitting moments before. It’s gut-wrenching, to think he’s making any step that Glenn hasn’t-- has never-- will never-- but that’s proof he’s alive, they’re alive, and he bears his lips onto Dimitri’s as if he can press the ghosts out of him. 

He can feel the warmth of Dima’s cheeks. His breath is wondrously close, his mouth moves to meet Felix, clumsy, sweet. It’s a completion, an inevitability. Felix is embarrassed to find he likes it, embarrassed to scramble a thin, calloused hand over Dimitri’s cold gauntlet. He doesn’t mind it. He tentatively slips his tongue into Dimitri’s parted mouth, and doesn’t mind it. 

Dimitri _is_ kissing back. Felix will remember this vividly. Perhaps he's already so caught up in the sensation that he doesn't notice the way the kiss loses strength. He doesn't recognize Dimitri pulling away until they're face to face, Dimitri covering his mouth. There's an odd, distant look in his eye as his hand hovers there, dark and jagged, nearly trembling. 

Felix knows immediately he's done something wrong. 

"I can't taste anything," Dimitri says. 

“Huh?" Felix exhales. Irritation streaks behind his eyes, and he scowls in the dim light, confused.

Certainly, he would rather have this experience without the taste-- the slightest sense of iron from Dima's chapped lips, the dinner meat he'd barely touched-- and he can't imagine his own mouth tastes like royal berries, cream, and cheese, but-- but that's not what this is about. 

"What?" he repeats, more annoyed, as his hands ball into fists. He'd rather Dimitri just refused him from the start-- "Dima, what are you even--" 

" _Don't do that again_ ," Dimitri demands, low and ragged. He is angry in a way he has seldom ever been with Felix, and the young noble feels his soul recoil more violently than before. He has been so _stupid._

And he still is, stunned absolutely fucking silent, going red in the face. He's ashamed to have done something Dimitri didn't like, but he's even more ashamed of not anticipating-- well, anything, really. 

There had only been an overpowering sense that if he didn't grab hold of Dimitri right then, he would lose him forever. He would never look at Felix like that again. 

"You can’t,” Dimitri presses, more quiet but unfailingly stern. 

“Such _propriety—_ ” Felix spits. 

Dimitri looks away, not that he was facing Felix in any meaningful capacity beforehand. He’s altogether too composed, now, that flash of wildness nowhere to be found behind those glassy, mournful eyes. “Felix, I’m sorry,” he sighs, “I can’t understand how I’m to—”

“You’re right. You can’t understand. But if I have to hear another sniveling apology from you--”

“Felix,” Dimitri says thickly, and Felix squeezes his eyes shut. He can't even hear himself think with his pulse banging in his ears.

“It was a sickening lapse in judgement,” Felix finds himself saying, dropping his weight back on the bed. And then: "It’s-- I've been-- spending too much time with Sylvain."

"Sylvain," Dimitri repeats vaguely, as if he’s having trouble matching the name to the boy. Felix loathes, and glares, and wills every muscle in his body not to betray a thing. Now he notices the lump in his throat has gotten bigger, raw and painful, and he sets the heel of his palm hard upon his temple.

"He-- talks of kissing at all hours. I don't know. Contagious lunacy. It was not as good as he always says--"

“No,” Dimitri agrees. He’s too placid. He’s a lake frozen over. He’s choosing his words, though _nothing_ could possibly breach the fever Felix is running. “Still, I’m-- sorry for my behavior.” He chances a look at Felix, who’s carefully expressionless himself, then murmurs, “And I’m fine. You need not worry for me so.” 

“I’m not worrying,” Felix answers, and he’s just not sure if he means it or not. It’s a useless thing, to worry. 

“Of course not,” Dimitri says, kindly, sadly. “I… appreciate all that you do for me.”

Which is less than nothing, and still Dimitri has the gall to lie about it. Felix stares at a fixed point and commands every muscle not to shake. “Dimitri,” he begins, faltering--

“Perhaps you’re tired,” Dimitri suggests quickly, “and that’s why…” 

“That’s it,” Felix says, taking the way out as it’s presented to him. He _is_ tired. “I’ve stupidly overworked myself because there’s nothing else to do around here.”

And nothing else feels as _good_ , besides. 

Dimitri takes a moment to muster up a response, rubbing at his elbow. “Ah. Well. You’re always welcome to join Dedue and I in the library,” he says. There’s clear reluctance in the offer, before the smallest of smiles plays at his lips. “He’s making fantastic strides in learning--”

“ _No,_ ” Felix says. Dimitri does not look fazed by this in the least. And because he can’t help himself, Felix continues, “You’re teaching him with those garbage legends, aren’t you?”

Dimitri looks uncomfortable. Has alternated between uncomfortable and _gone_ for the last hour now, hasn’t he? Except for that single moment just before Felix-- 

Well, nevermind that.

“They are what we learned with, aren’t they?” Dimitri asks evenly. He looks aside. “Quintessential Faerghus literature.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “I have less than zero interest.”

“I understand,” says Dimitri, diplomatic, with a half-smile that looks more like his lips have slid off-kilter. Felix winces and rubs his face.

“You make such strange expressions,” he blurts, annoyed. He reminds himself not to look at Dimitri’s lips like that any longer. It’s painful, anyway, what with all the awkward shapes they make. 

Dimitri’s laugh comes moments too late, high and carried away. He makes to rub at his own face, but seems to remember himself, his armor. Stiffly he drops his hand and makes yet another untrustworthy smile at Felix. “Ah, then I’ll-- I’ll work on that, too,” he says. “I am sor--”

“Quit apologizing,” Felix almost shouts. He feels like he might have to cover his ears. 

Dimitri stops mid-syllable, sizing Felix up from where he stands. “Alright,” he agrees. “I won’t. But, Felix, you understand that I want to, right?”

What the hell does Felix _understand_ anymore. He _knows_ Dimitri, how very susceptible he is to guilt, but it’s all worthless now. 

“I get it,” he says, soft. 

Dimitri tilts his head in sympathy. “You’re tired,” he repeats, shifts his weight from boot to boot, not quite princely. “Do you... want me to leave you be?”

Yes. No. Felix wants something he’s realizing he’ll never have. And he knew this, he _knew_ this, but he had at least expected some things to stay the same. 

Not likely. Time couldn't rewind for Glenn. Why would it stop for Felix? 

“Go,” Felix says with a shrug. The fever he felt earlier is gone, his heart has stopped pounding, yet he hardly hears Dimitri’s soft, “ _Then, good night. Thank you for your hospitality--”_ and he curses that he heard it at all. 

The door closes. Felix waits half a minute before he raises his hands to his eyes, pressing his palms in on them. There’s really no need. He’s not going to cry. Precedent has him thinking he might, for a moment, and so there’s a distant, blank surprise that nothing boils over. Nothing changes at all, really, except for the warmth lingering on his lips. Imagined, surely-- just last year he couldn’t help that, fleeting images and feelings and unfounded desires leaping to mind the few times he and Dimitri had shared a sleeping space, and he’d tentatively thought, _if I moved forward just a little more, I could--_

In secret, guilty hours, he’d wondered if Dimitri had ever thought the same things. He’d known that wasn’t the case, already. He has good instincts.

He turns his head away from the door, noting the broadsword carelessly strewn across the bed. He tsks at himself for being careless with it, though it’s annoying to fit the thing into its sheath when he can only lift it with both hands. Still, it’s a fine blade, well-suited for that-- for cutting your path to the future. 

What else is he to do? Go crying to Sylvain? 

He can’t. He won’t. 

Felix looks out the window on Fhirdiad, and knows it’s time to grow up.

**Author's Note:**

> Things i realized while writing this  
> 1\. When he wants to kiss them felix just GRABS people. Like in his byleth S support?  
> 2\. Doesnt this totally justify felix going APESHIT if anyone mentions his crush on dimitri  
> 3\. The way dimitri is like, DESPERATELY “you did this because you were tired right???? please dont say more words” i cant believe they have to both live knowing felix had this godawful crush and they both did some CRAZY evasive gymnastics to avoid ever having to acknowledge it  
> also  
> Dimitri when they kiss again literally 13 years later, hiding laughter: is this , , sylvains bad influence as well?  
> Felix: i'll literally kill you
> 
> Also i think i implied this kind of abstractly but when felix first saw dimitri and he was like, bedridden and out of his mind, he totally thought felix was glenn and like, Big Time cried at him, so felix literally just dipped from the capital 
> 
> one day i'll stop being such a wordy bastard


End file.
